


You don't have a personal relationship with an asset

by rocketpool



Category: Burn Notice, Leverage
Genre: M/M, cross-posted from LJ, porntastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-24
Updated: 2009-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world populated by people trained to disappear, it's funny how you can bump into the same person. Repeatedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You don't have a personal relationship with an asset

**Author's Note:**

> For the amazing [](http://umbralillium.livejournal.com/profile)[**umbralillium**](http://umbralillium.livejournal.com/), who very kindly made me four gorgeous manips and icons for my goth!boys verse. If she isn't careful, this Eliot/Mike stuff is going to try and turn into a verse of its own... Thanks again, darlin', and I'm just glad you like the writing enough you'll take it as payment! Her prompt was 'first meeting'.

 

The first time they meet is in Prague.

Well, no. That isn't true. Technically the first time is in Osaka. They're at the same bar, sipping on whiskey and each waiting for their contacts. They exchange pleasantries and small talk, all of it lies, all of it cover. Michael's contact arrives first, and the easy smile that had found its way to the corner of his mouth slipped away and life was back to business.

In Prague, though, their business is with each other. Michael needs an extra pair of hands, and they don't call Eliot a retrieval specialist for nothing. He's one of the best in the business, clever and fast and twice as stubborn, and a _damn_ good fighter to boot. Mike isn't the one that set this up, he has his handler to thank for that, but he couldn't have made a better choice.

For once things go smoothly. Mike never thought he'd be capable of regretting such a thing.

It only makes sense that the next time they bump into each other in Zurich, it's from opposite sides. And not just that, but they're after the same data chip. The up side is, of course, having worked together before, they don't take it personally. There's no ideals involved, no personal vendettas. No confusion.

Unfortunately, what _is_ involved? Three broken ribs, a broken nose, a fractured tibia, a dislocated shoulder, and a sprained ankle between them. Michael finds himself missing smooth.

Then they bump into each other in Hawaii. For once? Mike's on vacation. He wanders into a tiny restaurant completely on a whim, drawn to the fact that it isn't trendy and has a great view of the water.

He can feel the eyes on him from the other side of the room, and it's only well honed instincts that keep him from turning to look. Mike isn't working, he's on native soil. No need to let someone pick a fight when it really isn't necessary. (And knowing his luck? His vacation would end in a barrage of bullets and a new task to clean up, with no downtime before his boss gleefully sends him back into the Middle East.)

“Compliments of the chef,” his waiter says, setting down a platter of something exquisite looking that Michael didn't order, as well as a matching bottle of wine.

He grins, that small smile that tightens around his eyes because he doesn't mean it. “Thanks,” he says cheerfully to the waiter. Who is, of course, none the wiser. Poor kid probably didn't even realize there was a note tucked into the plate either. Mike's got a nose for this sort of thing, has to, considering. He looks at the note first. No sense risking getting poisoned or drugged.

 

_I still owe you for Zurich._

 

Mike stares at the careful scrawl. He recognizes the handwriting from Prague, of course. But he's less sure of Spencer's motives... Michael had been the one to get away with the chip, after all, and there was a very good chance that more had happened to Eliot for his failure than simply not getting paid. That's the problem with being a mercenary – there's no trusting your bosses.

He risks a glance over his shoulder and spots Eliot serving a couple their dinner himself, dressed in chef whites and chatting amiably. Blushing a little even, and obviously proud of his work. He finally steps away from the table, heading back toward the kitchen, but not before he glances back at Mike. His expression is a mixture of challenge and amusement, but his eyes don't carry the weight of a man looking to get revenge. He dips his head in acknowledgment and pushes through the swinging doors.

So. Definitely not poisoned then...

Eliot doesn't come out of the kitchen again. Mike eats his lunch in silence. (Except, maybe, for the soft moan he makes when he takes the first bite.) He leaves a tip on the table for the waiter and leaves, not that he goes far. Against his better judgment he strolls around the small shopping district not far from the restaurant and then spends the end of his afternoon sipping a whiskey sour while gazing out over the beach. He isn't sure why he does it; there's no reason he's willing to admit to just at the moment. Making himself easy to find is just stupid.

Yet the evening wears on, the sun setting the water ablaze, and he finds himself slowly ambling back toward the restaurant. He stops at a café down the street instead of going in, drinks two espressos and watches the town light up, the night life twinkling like stars.

It's late, late enough the restaurant's nearly closed. Michael strides in like he belongs there, nods to the hostess and a few of the waiters. They meekly call after him that the kitchen is closed, but he doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge them again. Strides right back toward the kitchen and pushes through the doors.

A few of the sous chefs and line cooks are bustling about, still cleaning their stations. Of course there's no sign of Eliot. Michael kicks himself – what had he been expecting anyway? – and starts to head right back out again. Then the back door out the back creaks and groans before slamming shut again. Intense blue eyes land on him, and Mike just stops. Waits.

This is Spencer's play.

The others look at him for a moment, but Eliot waves them back at their work, giving them a few orders about some event or another in the next few days and making arrangements for having tomorrow off last minute. Mike finds a quiet corner to lean against a spare counter and tries not to hold his breath. Before long, all Eliot's underlings have wished him a good night and they're alone.

Michael makes the mistake of blinking.

Eliot's on him in an instant, fists tangling in his shirt as he throws him against the door to the freezer. Mike manages to keep his feet, grunting as he hits the cold metal and barely resisting the urge to fight back. He's given Eliot all the advantages, and so far the man hasn't taken them. It's strange, and now Mike is curious. “Didn't figure you for the type to look for revenge.”

“I ain't,” Eliot says. He grins, pressing hard with his hips as he leans up and claims Michael's mouth.

Well. Mike hadn't been expecting _that_.

Eliot bites at his bottom lip, sucking at it, and finally Mike's brain catches up to the situation. He opens to him, hands finding their way to Eliot's hip and shoulders. He tries to turn them as Eliot's tongue delves into his mouth, claiming him anew before the man pulls back.

“My kitchen, son,” he breathes against his mouth. “What I say goes.”

The gravel worn rough with need goes straight to his cock, and Michael can't find it in himself to argue. He lets his head fall back when Eliot rolls his hips, spreads his legs a little wider and hitches his own hips in an attempt to ride Eliot's thigh. They're all too aware of the fact that the manager and the wait staff haven't left yet, that they could enter the kitchen at any moment, and it makes them desperate, heated.

Michael bites his lip to keep from moaning, hips thrusting forward again when Eliot pops his fly and slides his hand inside. He closes his eyes as nimble fingers curl around him, stroking him to full hardness even as Eliot claims his mouth again and swallows his whimpers. Mike thrusts into his hand, fingers digging into his back. He has just enough time to realize he can feel the tight length of Eliot's erection against him before the other man turns him and pushes his pants down and out of the way.

Eliot's fingers aren't gentle as they slide inside him, only needy. His other hand is steady on the center of Michael's back, disappearing just long enough to deal with his own clothing and the quiet crinkle of a condom wrapper. And then he's pressed against Michael's entrance, a moment's hesitation the only sign he wants permission. Mike grinds back, impaling himself and making Eliot gasp. He rocks forward until he's buried himself inside Michael completely.

It doesn't take them long to find a rhythm, moving hard and fast in tandem til the empty kitchen is filled with the sound of flesh on flesh and half voiced moans. Mike presses his forehead against the cool metal as Eliot presses even closer, hips rutting faster until the motion starts to stutter. Eliot reaches down, then, grasping Michael with firm pulls until he shudders, biting his wrist to keep from shouting out as his orgasm ripples through him. A few more thrusts and Eliot follows after him.

For a few moments they just lean against the wall and each other, letting themselves breathe before Eliot pulls out and they have to clean up and put themselves back together. Eliot gives him a self-satisfied grin, looking flushed and a little fucked out.

“Y'already got a hotel?” he asks as he straightens his clothes and grabs his things. Mike has to grin at his tone; the evening obviously isn't finished yet, and for once he's looking forward to it.


End file.
